Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  “And what in the name of God is going on here?” said the doctor in the voice of doom. “Miss Pickerell, get your patient back to bed at once, and then see to that baby! And the rest of you, I want an explanation of this disgraceful scene as soon as I’ve finished examining Mrs. O’Neill.”

  “But, Doctor,” said at least three voices at once.

  “Quiet!” he bellowed.

  “Tea,” said Patrick, putting one arm around the sobbing Mrs. Murphy’s shoulders and the other around his wife’s waist. “With maybe somethin’ a little stronger in it.”

  He must have put quite a little bit of the stronger stuff into Mrs. Murphy’s tea, because by the time the doctor came downstairs and put his head in the kitchen door she was no longer crying. Indeed, she was singing, along with Patrick, a quavery rendition of “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” Hilda, with a headache growing more and more insistent, had asked for coffee. Mrs. O’Rourke made it, but she was not pleased. She hated having the family in her domain, especially so close to suppertime.

  “We could go to the parlor,” said Hilda to the doctor, looking a little doubtfully at Mrs. Murphy.

  Patrick shook his head. “Better to let sleepin’ dogs lie,” he said under his breath. “She’s happy at the moment.”

  “And she’s welcome to stay,” said Mrs. O’Rourke. “The poor woman’s had a hard day, and another drop of whiskey won’t do her no harm. But I’d be obliged if the rest of you would let me get on with me work, or the saints alone know when you’ll get your supper.”

  Hilda had noticed that all the Irish men and women in her life—and the good Lord knew there were enough of them!—became much more Irish when they were in an emotional state. But then she, herself, reverted to her Swedish lilt and accent when upset, and occasionally even to a little Swedish profanity. To each his own, she thought with a shrug, and watched Patrick remove his arm from Mrs. Murphy’s grasp—carefully, lest she fall from her chair. Mrs. Murphy hiccupped and went on with another verse of her song.

  “Well, I’ve got them settled,” said Doctor Clark, accepting a glass of whiskey from Patrick. “Took some doing. Norah wanted to go on about her husband, and the baby’d cried herself into near hysterics. I gave ’em both some laudanum. Don’t like to give drugs to a baby that young, but she was heading for a fit. Who I’d like to dose is that mother of Norah’s.”

  “I’ve done that for you,” said Patrick with a grin. “She’s feelin’ no pain. What she’ll feel in the mornin’ is another question. Hilda, a little brandy?”

  She shook her head, and instantly regretted it. Her temples were throbbing. “Patrick, you should not have made her drunk.”

  “Ah, you can scold me better than that, darlin’. Your heart’s not in it. You know you’d rather have her drunk and quiet than sober and raisin’ Hail Columbia.” He poured himself some whiskey and sat down next to Hilda on the settee. Hilda rested her aching head on his shoulder. It was not proper, with someone else present, but she was too tired to care.

  “So what’s it all about, then?” asked the doctor. “I’ve been out on rounds all day and didn’t know anything about anything until I got a frantic phone call from that little maid of yours. And Norah wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

  Hilda opened her mouth, but Patrick got in first. “Let me, darlin’. You’re fair worn out, what with runnin’ errands all day and worryin’ on top of it. The short of it is, Doctor, that Sean O’Neill’s been arrested for murderin’ that man that died in the barn fire.”

  The doctor was tired, too. He sipped from his glass before saying, “And why is that? I thought they’d pretty nearly decided he couldn’t have done it.”

  Patrick and Hilda looked at each other. “Um…” said Hilda. “Well…” said Patrick.

  Doctor Clark shook his head impatiently. “out with it, then. It’s Norah’s health I’m worried about, you know that. Don’t give a hoot what Sean’s done, unless worry over it kills his wife.”

  Hilda made up her mind. If a doctor could not be trusted to keep secrets, the world was a sorry place. “The police do not really suspect Sean, not now.” She spoke very quietly. “There was some evidence against him, but they have decided it was seeded?”

  “Planted,” put in Patrick.

  “—planted, and they believe what Sean says. But they think he is not safe, because the person who would do such a thing as plant evidence against him might even want to kill him. So they keep him in the jail, to keep him from danger. And we are not to tell anyone.”

  “I’m safe enough, you know that.” The doctor yawned.

  “Yes, I know, and that is why I told you. But, Doctor, Norah is not safe. She would tell her mother, and Mrs. Murphy would tell her friends, and the whole town would know soon. And that could be very bad for Sean.” She massaged her temples.

  “And if Norah doesn’t know, it could be very bad for Norah. now look here, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I can see you’re not feeling very well. Headache?”

  Hilda nodded. Carefully.

  “I’ll give you something for it before I go, and I’m sorry to keep you from your supper and your bed, but you need to understand. What’s wrong with Norah is anemia, and it’s a funny disease. We don’t know a lot about it, but we do know that a person who has it must eat the right kind of food. often that’ll be enough to cure it. Norah’s doing well, better than I expected.”

  “We make her take the tonic,” said Hilda. “The nurse and Mrs. O’Rourke and I, we all make sure she takes it, and eats what she should, too.”

  “In her case, that seems to be working, that and being kept calm and quiet, and getting lots of sleep. But she’s not well yet, not by a long shot. This worry could keep her from eating and sleeping, and that’s bad. And worry by itself is an awful strain on a person, even one who isn’t sick. Norah’s just had a baby, and she lost a lot of blood in the process. now she’s got this to worry about again. It’s doing her no good, I tell you frankly.”

  Hilda stood up and began to pace the floor. “I do not know what is best to do. I promised the mayor I would not tell anyone about Sean. now I have told you, and you tell me I should tell Norah. But telling her is telling the world.”

  “Well, you’ve until tomorrow to decide. Norah’s dead to the world for the next ten hours or so. I know what I’d do—tell her and let the devil take the hindmost. As long as the man’s in jail, what harm can come to him from outside? But I’ll leave it up to you. You told me in confidence, and I won’t spill the beans myself. now.” He stood, put down his glass, and reached into his bag. “You’re to take one of these powders now and one just before bed. Have a light supper and some strong coffee, and put an ice bag on your head when you go to bed. I’m off to check on another soul who’s about to come into the world. If you want, I’ll take Mrs. Murphy home and give her something that’ll make her head better in the morning.”

  Patrick and Hilda gratefully agreed. Mrs. Murphy on the rampage was bad enough. Mrs. Murphy with a hangover—they shuddered to think. They eased her out the door, still singing and clinging to the doctor’s arm, and retired to lick their wounds.

  Portlands and Speeding Cutters

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  South Bend Tribune

  December 1904

  26

  SHALL I STAY HOME this mornin’ and help you fend off any wild Irish matrons that might come callin’?” Patrick folded his newspaper and finished his coffee.

  “No, Patrick. I have told Eileen to keep the doors locked and not let Mrs. Murphy in. It seems cruel, but it is better for Norah. And I will be out. I have been thinking.”

  “So that’s why you were so restless last night. Was your head bad? I thought you’d sleep like the dead after the day you’d had and those headache powders, but you were up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”

  “Ooh, that is another toy for the list.” She made a note on a pad she kept by
her plate. “No, the medicine helped, or maybe the ice. My headache went away, but the coffee, maybe, kept me awake. And then I had to think out what to do, and there are many things. One thing there is that I want you to do.”

  “I’m at your feet, darlin’.”

  “I want you to go to the police station and look at the billfold, the one that started all the trouble. There may be initials on it. If there are, they are hard to read, but I want you to try. I think it is important to know whose billfold that was.”

  “It could have been lyin’ there for a long time, you know. I expect that’s why the police haven’t followed up on it.”

  “Yes, but I want to know about the initials. I think they might be important. Also, I want to go to see Mr. Miller.”

  Patrick frowned. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. We don’t know a lot about the man. For all we know, he set that fire himself.”

  “Patrick! Do not be foolish! He could not have set it himself; he was not there. But I want to know where he was, and the only way to find out is to ask him.”

  “Can’t you leave that to the police?”

  “I do not trust the police. Oh, I believe the mayor when he says they did not seed—plant—that knife. But they were not smart about it, either. I think some of them are stupid and lazy, and Sergeant Applegate, he might be worse than that. Now that the mayor has scolded them, they will maybe do better, but they are not in a hurry about it. For Norah, I must be in a hurry.”

  Patrick gave up. Much as he would like to protect his wife, she would have none of it. “Then make sure O’Rourke is close by the whole time. I’m buyin’ you that beautiful indigo wool today and droppin’ it by your dressmaker’s, and I want to make sure I’ve got a wife to put in it when it’s done.”

  “That is kind of you, Patrick. And I will be careful. But you know I must do these things, or I will be as—as blue as that wool.”

  “I ought to know that by now. Determination is your middle name, darlin’ girl.”

  He kissed her quite thoroughly and hurried off to work. Hilda was glad to see him go, for it allowed her to put into operation the other part of her plan. She went to the telephone and called the home of her old employers.

  “Tippecanoe Place.” Mr. Williams’s voice on the other end of the line was cold. It was not the proper time of day for phone calls.

  “This is Mrs. Cavanaugh, Williams.” She got that out without giggling, much to her satisfaction. “I am sorry to call so early, but I need to speak to Mrs. Clem, if she is able to come to the telephone.”

  “Mrs. Clem is not feeling well, Hil—madam. She cannot come to the telephone.”

  “Oh, then she will not be wanting the carriage today. Will Colonel George need it, do you know, or Mrs. George?”

  “Colonel George and Mrs. George are away, madam.”

  “Oh, good. Then would you please ask Mrs. Clem if she would mind if I borrowed John Bolton and the sleigh for the day, or the morning anyway?”

  “Er—is your coachman ill, madam?”

  “No, Williams. O’Rourke is well. Will you ask her, please?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  The chill in his voice could almost be felt. Once it would have frozen Hilda to the bone. Today, she was delighted to realize, she didn’t care. She only wanted him to hurry with a reply.

  “Hilda, my dear, why do you need my coachman? You’re quite welcome to him, of course, but is something wrong?”

  Hilda was so delighted to hear Mrs. Clem’s voice she almost fell back into her servant mode. “Oh, mad—er—Mrs. Clem, I am so glad to talk to you. Williams said you were ill.”

  “Silly man. Not ill, just tired. I have no plans for today, though, so if you want Bolton, I’ll send him over.”

  “Thank you. You see, I want to leave Mr.—that is, to leave O’Rourke here today.” Briefly Hilda told the old lady the story of Mrs. Murphy’s invasion. “And I do not think Eileen will be able to keep her out if she decides to come back, so I want a strong man here. But I have things I must do, in the country. I could hire a sleigh, but I need a coachman.”

  The chuckle came clearly over the line. “I won’t ask what things, my dear. Good luck to you. And when you’ve finished for the day, why don’t you stop in here? We do need to talk a bit about the party, as it’s a week from tomorrow.”

  “I have not forgotten. I have been planning. Thank you for letting me use your sleigh, and John Bolton, and I will call in late this afternoon.”

  Patrick would not like her using John. There had been times in the past when John’s flirtation with Hilda had been on the heavy side. But Hilda knew he had meant little by it, and had put him in his place when necessary. And John was strong, and essentially loyal to her. He would do nicely as an escort for today.

  She had barely had time to inform the O’Rourkes about her plans when John was at the door, with a dashing cutter pulled by Star and Bright, Hilda’s favorites among the Studebaker horses. She slipped some sugar lumps into her pocket and went out into another day of brilliant winter sunshine.

  She had not seen John since her wedding. He took off his hat and swept a bow, a pronounced twinkle in his eye. “Good morning, madam. You’re looking very fine today, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Good morning, John. You are looking well yourself. It is good to see you again. And my name is Hilda.”

  He grinned. “So long as nobody’s around.”

  “Yes. We are friends. I do not see why we should be formal when we are private. With others, I suppose we are Mrs. Cavanaugh and Bolton. Yes?”

  “Agreed. You really are looking beautiful, Hilda. Regular Gibson Girl. So where do I have the privilege of driving you today?”

  “We go first to Firehouse Five, then out to the country. South of town; I do not know exactly where. That is what I must find out at the firehouse.”

  Given explicit directions from an admiring fire crew, Hilda climbed back up into the sleigh. John wrapped her well in Mrs. Clem’s fur carriage robes, and they were off, harness bells jingling.

  It was truly a beautiful day. Since the snow, the weather had been so cold that very little had turned to dirty brown slush. The small factory workers’ houses they were driving past looked brighter, cleaner than usual, snow turning stunted bushes into sparkling white mounds, snow covering dirt front yards, snow hiding roofs that needed repair. on a few of the houses were hung small wreaths of holly or pine, bright with red ribbons. The people they passed waved cheerily, and Hilda returned the waves. Snow and sunshine—a merry combination.

  Soon, though, the snow would melt. The poverty and ugliness it hid would be seen again. The sky would darken, and so would the spirits of the poor. She must, Hilda thought, she must see to it that the boys’ party was a great success. And if she could bring Sean home soon, she would ensure that one poor family, at any rate, had a happy Christmas.

  She leaned forward. “Can we go no faster, John?”

  “Not unless you want your ears froze off,” he called back. “It’s cold out, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Hilda sat back and shook her head. John would never change.

  In fact it took only half an hour to get to the Miller farm. Once they were near, it was easy to spot. The blackened ruins of the barn loomed over the property like an ugly sentinel. Even after more than a month of rain and snow, the smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air.

  “You sure this is the place?”

  “John! This is the farm where the hired man was killed. Of course it is where I want to visit.”

  “Ah. Snooping again, I see.”

  “I try,” said Hilda with dignity, “to find out who set the fire. I know it could not have been Sean O’Neill, but Norah is very afraid. And with her new baby, she should not be worrying.”

  “That’s true enough,” said John seriously. “It’s a bad business, that. Sean’s all right, if he is an Irishman, and I’ll swear on forty stacks of Bibles he never killed anybody. Right you are. I�
�ll deliver you to the door, and I’ll be right here, in case of any funny business.”

  “Thank you, John. That is why I wanted you to come. I can trust you.”

  He helped her down, and she made her way to the side door, knowing better than to go to the seldom-used front door of a farmhouse.

  Her knock set off a cacophony of barking. “Hold your horses, I’m coming!” A female voice responded to her knock, and a moment later, the door was flung open. Two large dogs stood panting next to a rosy-cheeked woman in a print dress and an apron, with flour on her hands and a smudge of it on her nose.

  They looked at each other in equal astonishment. Hilda recovered first. “I am sorry. I did not know Mr. Miller had a housekeeper. That is—I am at the right house, am I not? This is Mr. Miller’s farm?”

  “It is, though I’m sure I don’t know who you might be. As for me, I’m not the housekeeper. Or, I suppose in a way I am. I’m Mrs. Miller. Here, now, don’t stand there in the cold letting your mouth gape open like a fish. Come on in, come on in.”

  It was warm in the kitchen, and fragrant with the smell of apple pie. “Thank you,” said Hilda, grasping at her manners. “My name is Hilda Joh—Hilda Cavanaugh. I was surprised, Mrs. Miller, because I did not know Mr. Miller was married.”

  “He wasn’t, was he, till about a month ago. And I only moved out here last week. So nobody much knows about me yet. We don’t have close neighbors and we don’t get into town much, what with all the work to be done here. Sit down, child, and take your things off. My, that’s a pretty hat! Mind you don’t get flour on your skirt. I’m afraid the kitchen’s not very tidy, but I’ve been baking. Wanted to get my pies done well before Christmas. I’ve finished with the apple now, and before I start on the mince I was just about to sit down and have a piece myself. Want one?”